


The Caller

by DovK



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Comfort Sex, F/F, Lesbian Sex, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2013-10-26
Packaged: 2017-12-30 12:52:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1018850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DovK/pseuds/DovK
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Magic is a force woven by the fingertips, powerful enough to bind living beings together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Caller

“I’m just here for the books,” you repeat, the words sounding small as they come out of your mouth. You tighten your grip on your bow, draw the arrow back another half-inch, your hands shaking.

The Caller looks back at you, ethereal swirls of magicka gathering around her hands, the pinpricks of light sharp and blinding in the darkened chamber, stinging your eyes like snowflakes.

“You’ve killed not a single one of the mages that follow me,” she drawls, stepping out from behind her podium and walking slowly towards you. Your trembling hands just barely manage to keep the arrow aimed at her as she moves.

“I’ve — I wasn’t here for them. I’m here for the books. Just the books. I’m not supposed to kill anyone.” Stupid words, you think, meaningless. She’s about to kill you.

“Which I appreciate,” the Caller says, almost laughing. She stops just a few feet short of you and holds her hand up to your face; the magelight in her palm stings your eyes, and you glance away for just a second before she gently places her fingertips against your chin and turns your face back to the light. You try to look her in the eye, to be defiant, but the light is too bright, and your eyes water, and you have to glance down at her chest.

“Interesting,” she breathes, her voice barely a whisper. “You could have killed them all, couldn’t you? You’re the Dragonborn that’s been all the talk recently.” She sounds pleased. She must be. She has you at her mercy. She’s still holding your chin, forcing you to look at her, and for some reason you can’t back away or twist out of her grasp; she’s doing something to you, something awful, some sort of paralysis enchantment…

“Yes,” you answer, your voice just a whisper. You lower your bow. Why did you do that, a small part of you asks, knowing that she has you at her mercy now. The magelight in her hand flickers out, replaced by a small ember of flame; this light is much more agreeable to your eyes, and you can look up again, and to your surprise, she’s smiling at you.

“I appreciate the kindness you’ve done me. You’re not some College lackey. You haven’t interrupted our work, haven’t hurt anyone…” she pauses, her eyes meeting yours, and her smile fades, replaced by something else, an expression that’s almost thoughtful. “You’re really just here for those books?”

“Y-yes. Just the books.”

Her hand finally leaves your face, and to your shock you’re overcome with a sudden and keen desire to grab her wrist, press your face to her palm, feel her fingertips against your cheek — but she turns away, and walks over to the door at the back of the chamber. You follow, unbidden.

She opens the door with a brush of her fingertips; you watch entranced, and it takes all your effort to tear your gaze away from her hands and follow her inside. The room she’s led you into is small; a warm fire burns in a fireplace, a bed draped in warm furs sits against one wall, and on a bookcase by the door, the three volumes you came for sit in a neat stack.

She sits on the bed and gestures toward the books.

“You’re free to take them,” she says, sounding bored. “They were little help to us. I suppose once you have them, you’ll be leaving, yes?”

For some reason, the words hurt, but that’s what you came here to do. You scoop up the books, put them in your pack, your movements feeling hollow, your hands numb. Books. Back to the college. The idea circles around your head, and you turn toward the door, but you can feel her eyes on you as you prepare to leave, and they stay your feet.

“Is there something else?” She asks, and you turn back toward her.

She’s pulling off her boots, looking weary; she’s tugged off the right one, but stopped to look at you as she was pulling off the left, clearly curious as to why you haven’t gone yet. It seems she’s given up any idea of you being a threat, and was just going to lie down, but as you look at her, something overcomes you.

You take two long strides toward her, and she raises her hands, her eyes widening, readying herself for an attack, but you grab her wrists, force them back, pin her down, kiss her.

It’s been too long; you should have known from the instant you felt her touch that this was going to happen. Too many long days since the last time you felt someone’s fingers on your skin, too many months, too many battles, too many wounds, too many fights. You can’t even remember the last time. She struggles for a moment, then relaxes; her tongue circles around yours, her back arches upward. You break the kiss, hurl off your pack, strip off your cloak, throw your bow against the wall with a clatter. She watches from underneath you, her eyes aflame, the dark skin of her cheeks turning duskier with a faint blush as she watches you strip off your gear.

When you’re down to just your arming doublet, you dive back down to her, and this time leave her arms free; they circle around your neck, pulling you closer against her. Without your armor in the way, you can feel her heat through her robes, unnaturally warm; are all mages like this? you wonder numbly as her teeth find your bottom lip, nibble at it, force you to gasp.

You tear at her robes, and manage to expose her breasts; you break your kiss, your lips find the soft peak of her nipple, you suck, the breath catches in her throat. Her legs wrap around you, one boot still on, and you twist, pressing the curve of one hip between her legs, she grinds against it, her robes riding up with each thrust.

Her hands grasp your head, pull you away; some shuddering need within you rises as you feel her fingertips against your face again. She doesn’t have to say a word, and you understand what she needs; you slide down, part her robes away from between her legs, letting the folds of the fur garment come down over your head as your tongue seeks out her warmth, taking just a second to find what you’re looking for.

She bucks under you and has to choke back a scream, and her fingers tangle in your hair, holding you down, urging you forward. Your lips meet hers, and your tongue strums against her, and you hum, half-drunk with vicarious pleasure as the woman under you writhes. You know this dance well; your tongue twists, flicks, caresses, laps, you suck and let your lips run over her skin and in just a moment she stiffens, silently, and her grip on your hair tightens until it’s painful, and you don’t stop, know better than to ever dare to stop, and you can feel her begin to quake under you as something rises from within her, something she hasn’t felt in too long, something she’s needed, and it tears its way forth; with one deep, guttural groan, she collapses, lets go of your hair, and you give her one last kiss, nuzzle between her legs one last time, before you slide back up to her.

Her eyes are closed, but she turns toward you, kisses you, and you let her indulge you; she’s exhausted, you can feel that in her every move, but she wanted to reward you with one kiss, and you accept it. You wrap your arms around her, and she curls up in your embrace; she mutters something incoherent, perhaps something in the old dunmer tongue, and kisses your neck softly.

You reach down and hold her hand, and let her fingers intertwine with yours.


End file.
